Put Down
by Succi
Summary: For once Sherlock's deduction about Molly Hooper is wrong. Her being sad has nothing to do with breaking if off with Tom. No, the reason is one the consulting detective can sympathize with. So he goes on a mission, because it's unacceptable that his pathologist is not okay. – Set in Series 3.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This takes place somewhere in series 3 I guess one could say it goes AU from there. But read and find out for yourself  
It was inspired by Sherlock's comment to Redbeard in the mind palace scene in HLV, obviously.

I hope you enjoy it and I'd love to know what you think. English is not my native tongue, and I'm way better in American than in British English, so please bear with me! No Beta, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes strode into the morgue as if he owned the place. His collar was upturned and his blue scarf in place. As always his pace was fast, and he was followed by his blogger John Watson.

"Ah, Molly," he started to speak as he spotted the pathologist who leaned over a corpse, "I need to see Mrs Wilkinson." Without waiting for a reply he went over to where the bodies were stored. He stood there with his hands behind his back, as was his usual posture; sure she would appear at his side in a moment. But to his big surprise she did not. A little taken aback he turned around to see why she hadn't followed him. He was used to being followed by either her or John. But the pathologist was still standing beside the dead body on the table unmoving. Only now he took a closer look at her and realized it seemed as if she was miles away. Her stare was distant. Sherlock glanced shortly at John who just shrugged his shoulders.

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried again, "Molly, I need to see the body." And after a short silence he added, "Please."

He was quite content with himself for being so polite. But still she didn't budge. Sherlock's eyes narrowed - a clear sign for John that he was deducing the pathologist.

_Clothes even more rumpled than usual, seems like she doesn't even register us, red, puffy eyes – has been crying, dark circles under her eyes – lack of sleep, large stain of coffee on her sleeve – her hands were shaking when she spilled it. _

In his mind the consulting detective put two and two together and came to the only logical conclusion. So he moved to stand beside her. He leaned down and touched her gently on the shoulder.

"Molly." His voice was hardly as gentle as his hand. That brought her out of her stupor. She squinted and looked up at him. She was obviously surprised to see him standing next to her.

"Oh hi, Sherlock." Her cheeks turned red, she took a step back from him, looked down on the floor and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. His hand slipped from her shoulder.

"Hello Molly, how're doing?" asked John from behind her. She turned around and smiled weakly at him. "Hello John, sorry I didn't see you back there." The army doctor smiled back and waved his hand in a don't-worry-about-it-way.

Sherlock watched their exchange with impatience, because all those unnecessary courtesies were only delaying his work – in his opinion. He tried to get his pathologist's attention back, "Since now we've established that we are 3 living people in the room, could you be so kind as to show me Mrs Wilkinson?"

Molly turned back to the impatient detective, still trying to keep her eyes downcast. It was obvious she wanted to hide the fact that she'd been crying. She crossed the room, pulled Mrs Wilkinson out and stepped aside, so Sherlock could have a good look. John joined his friend and leaned over the body as well.

"Did you find anything unusual during the post mortem?" John asked.

"You mean, apart from the fact that she was beaten to death by her husband? No. But then again, you're right, that's nothing out of the ordinary." Sarcasm was dripping from her words, and John's head snapped up in bewilderment. Never before had he heard sweet Molly Hooper talk like that.

Sherlock didn't seem appalled at all. On the contrary, he looked intrigued as he asked, "Why do you think it was the husband?"

Molly shrugged her shoulders. "Isn't it always the husband? There's a wedding band on her finger, hence married. She was severely beaten, which is a very personal way of killing someone. It's typical for a crime of passion. He must have been in a rage. Maybe he found out she cheated on him. Additionally there are older bruises on her arms and ribs – typical signs of domestic abuse. Furthermore Greg told me there were no signs of a burglary, so she must have known the murderer. Case closed."

Only now Molly looked up at Sherlock Holmes. He stared right back at her. She did not flinch under his scrutinizing gaze.  
"Interesting," was all Sherlock finally said, still looking at her as if she was some specimen under a microscope.

John was looking from one to the other, having the feeling something very weird was going on between the two of them. He was used to the not stammering after-the-fall-version of the pathologist by now, but a rant like that…

Molly cocked her head to the side. "I wouldn't have thought you'd find this case interesting. It must be righteous boring for you, if even **I** could solve it."  
Sherlock looked closer at her – if that was even possible. "I was not talking about the case."  
Molly's eyebrows drew together in confusion. Of course Sherlock did not elaborate. He turned on his heels and left the morgue without another word.

Molly was still staring blankly at the spot where the consulting detective had been only seconds ago. John laid a hand on her shoulder, mumbled a "Thank you," accompanied with an apologetic smile and left to follow his friend.

* * *

**The next day**

The case of Mrs Wilkinson was closed. It had been almost exactly as Molly had said: Mrs Wilkinson was trying to get a divorce from her abusive husband. He found out she already got a new lover, so he lost it and killed her in his rage. Lestrade had found Mr Wilkinson at his stepbrother's house, just as Sherlock had told him he would.

John had to agree with Molly: The case had been too easy. Normally this would not even rate a three on detective's scale. So why was he bothering with it? But there seemed to be a pattern: Since Sherlock had been back, he had taken up more and more cases that rated low on his scale. And for all those cases he had to go to St. Bart's. John wondered if that was somehow related? But then again he had to think about Sherlock's behaviour yesterday. It had been obvious Molly had had a bad day, but instead of acknowledging it, he had behaved like he always did – apart from touching her. That was new. Sherlock was not one for initiating physical contact. John decided to address the matter at hand.

"You should have been nicer to Molly."

Sherlock shrugged while sitting on the couch. "Why?"

"Didn't you see how she looked like?"  
"I did not only see, I observed."  
John crossed his arms. "She's having a hard time."  
"She had obviously been crying over the end of her engagement." Sherlock still seemed to be ignorant of why he should have been nicer to the pathologist. The army doctor sighed. Sometimes it was beyond John's comprehension why he had to explain elementary things like that to the world's only consulting detective.

"And that's why…" Sherlock held up a hand and interrupted him, "John, I don't need you to explain to me why Molly's having a hard time. I know why Molly behaved the way she did. It was quite obvious, really."  
"Really?" John gave him the care-to-share-with-the-class-look.  
For an observer one could have thought Sherlock was reluctant so share his deduction, but John knew him well enough to know that the detective loved to show off. So he explained, "Molly got very emotional over the beating of Mrs Wilkinson. She concluded that the murderer had been the husband, which resulted from her projecting her feelings towards Tom on the husband. Hence the only logical explanation is that Tom cheated on her. Although I've got to admit that I'm surprised about that. He didn't seem like the cheating type to me, but then, that's not really my area. So tell me John, why should I pity her? She should be glad to be rid of him, the cheating bastard!" The way he said the last words gave John the creeps. He wished for poor Tom he would not cross paths with Sherlock Holmes in the next couple of days. Apart from that John was unfazed. Sherlock looked sceptical.

"What?"  
"You guessed wrong, mate."  
"I don't guess."  
"Then you've jumped to the wrong conclusion."  
"And I don't jump to conclusions either, John."  
"I know, you only jump from rooftops."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at this. "I do deductions. It's a science."  
"Well, I'm sorry to tell you, but you've deduced wrong. The end of her engagement was not why Molly had been crying."  
After a beat of silence, "Now, will you tell me why?" Sherlock was getting impatient.  
"I thought you don't need me to," John teased. The stare his former flat mate gave him, let him know that he was definitely not in the mood for teasing.  
So John gave in, "Toby died."  
"Her cat?"  
John opened and closed his mouth in surprise. Sherlock Holmes, who could not even remember Greg's name, knew that Toby was Molly's cat?!  
After recovering from his little shock he continued, "There were always cats' hair on Molly's sleeves, because she pets Toby before she leaves the flat. There were no hairs on her sleeves yesterday."  
Sherlock looked like he had been slapped across the face. And he knew how that felt – he had been slapped quite a few times since his resurrection.  
"Additionally," John continued, "I know that Molly was the one who broke up with Tom, and it had nothing to do with cheating." At the end of his speech a triumphantly smile crept on John's face. Sherlock still looked baffled.

After a moment of silence Sherlock cleared his throat. It was a rare occasion to see Sherlock Holmes being hesitant to speak.  
"So, you're saying, Molly is sad because her tabby died?" He frowned. "But he wasn't old. Domestic cats live an average of 15 years."  
"Maybe Toby got sick and he had to be put down?" John suggested.

Sherlock's head snapped up. At first he stared at John, but then got this vacant stare as if remembering something. Still John wanted the conversation to keep going.  
"What did you mean with interesting?"  
Sherlock's eyes flickered over to John. "It's not relevant anymore."  
"Sherlock, why did you take this case? Molly was right, you must have figured it out the second you read the police report. There was no need to go to Bart's and see the body." The detective seemed appalled at John suggesting such a thing. "There's always a reason to go to Bart's!" he stated with finality. John's eyebrows wandered up to his hairline. _Where was that coming from?  
_"Sherlock, is there something you want to tell me?"  
For a moment it seemed to the doctor as if his friend might continue and let him get a glimpse of that twisted thing that was his brain. But of course that didn't happen. John had asked for one more miracle and he had gotten it. He couldn't expect another one.

So Sherlock's answer was to put his hands under his chin and retreat to his mind palace.

* * *

After John had gone home, Sherlock had to do some research. Normally he would have taken advantage of his blogger to gather the information, but this was something he had to do on his own. This was something personal.

It had not been hard to find out where he had to go. It wasn't even far away. It was so close that he decided to walk. Picking the lock was easy as well – he was not breaking into a bank after all.

As he went through the first room he heard noises and saw some eyes reflecting the light of his torch. He tried to keep the ray of light on the floor, so he would not disturb the creatures too much. He couldn't shake off the feeling of déjà-vu. Only this time he was on a mission and there was no Mycroft following him.

In the second room he found what he had been looking for. Carefully he picked up the box and got out again as quickly as he could.

On his way back to Baker Street he had to admit that although step 1 of his mission was completed, something was still troubling him: How could he have been wrong about Molly Hooper? How was it possible that John had known what was going on? Sure John was way better than him in terms of reading people's feelings, but he couldn't quite believe his friend had deduced the pathologist's state from the lack of cats' hair on her jumper. That was way too farfetched for the army doctor.

But the question that was bothering him the most was: Why had Molly broken off her engagement? Sure, he knew she didn't really love Tom, but that hadn't kept her from accepting his proposal. So why would she bother now? And why was he even thinking about his pathologist? When had she become his pathologist in his mind? Why was it bothering him that she was on first name terms with Lestrade – whatever his first name was, Geoffrey? Was he losing his mind? The box in his hand should have been enough prove for that. He almost wanted to laugh. What was he doing? It was ridiculous. He stopped. For a moment he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Even John had noticed it: He would take almost every case that required him to go to Bart's. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew exactly why. It was the same reason he had committed a break in tonight and why he was standing on the pavement with a box in his hands.

It was no use. He would have to ask John before he could proceed to step 2.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the favourites, follows and reviews so far! They really made my day!

This one's a short one, BUT there's more to come :-)

* * *

On the next morning, John Watson was woken up by a text from Sherlock Holmes.

**Baker Street. Now. SH**

Groaning he got out of bed, kissed his wife goodbye and made his way to his former residence, thinking a new case awaiting him.

When John arrived at Baker Street it seemed like Sherlock hadn't moved at all since he had left him the evening before. He was still seated on the couch, his fingertips brushing his chin. The only things that were different were his clothes (_Purple shirt – must be a special case then)_ and the blue box (_no, not the T.A.R.D.I.S.) _on the table.

As John sat down in his chair, Sherlock came back from wherever in his mind palace he had been and acknowledged the presence of his blogger.  
"Mary told you."  
"Sorry, what?"  
"You didn't deduce the death of Toby from the lack of cats' hair. You are usually hopelessly unobservant, especially in regards to Molly Hooper. So there's just no way you could've noticed that."  
John could only snort at that. "Oh, because you pay so much attention to her if you don't need anything from her…"  
"I always pay attention to Molly Hooper!" Sherlock definitely sounded angry at John's assumption.  
"Yeah, like you did yesterday."

Sherlock ignored John's sarcastic comment and continued, "So you admit that Mary told you about the death of Molly's cat?"  
John held up his hands in defeat. "Guilty. Molly had called her. She had been really upset, because she had to take Toby to the vet and put him to sleep."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He stared into space.  
John sighed, "So, do you feel better now? Was that all? Can I go back to my wife now?"  
"No."

John waited for his friend to go on, but apparently Sherlock didn't know how. It was obvious he was distressed. He let out a frustrating groan, before ruffling his hair and getting up. John could only look at him in sympathy. The doctor was sure the mood of his former flat mate had something to do with feelings. Sherlock had no idea how to cope with them.  
"Sherlock, what's the matter?"

Sherlock paced a few times from the window to the door and back. John waited patiently and followed him with his eyes. Finally Sherlock stopped the pacing. With his back towards John he stood by the window and asked, "Why did Molly end her engagement?"

Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle fit together and John knew exactly why Sherlock was acting the way he did. So his voice was soft, when he answered his best friend, "You know exactly why, Sherlock."  
"Good," was all the man at the window said. At least that was what John thought he had heard. Sherlock's voice was so low.  
"Sherlock, you know it's ok to feel something for someone."  
John wanted to continue, but Sherlock cut him off, "You can go now."

John stared at the back of his friend. He wished he could say something that would help him somehow. But he knew there were no words. So he got up from his chair and walked to the door.

Before leaving he couldn't help but offer a suggestion, "You know, maybe you should tell her that you always pay attention to her."  
With that John stepped outside and closed the door, hoping for once his friend would listen to his advice.

**TBC **


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Again thanks for all the favs, followers and reviews. I'm glad you like it! This one is only a bit longer, but I promise the next chapers will be loooooong!

* * *

Molly Hooper felt lonely. Normally she liked being on her own, but on some days life as a single woman just felt lonely, even more so after the death of Toby. The mere thought of him threatened to bring back tears to her eyes.

She knew when she broke it off with Tom that it meant going back to being single again. Still she had done it, because even when she had been with Tom, sometimes she had felt lonely. Why was it that she never felt lonely when she was with HIM? Even if it was only in the morgue or in the lab, and he didn't even notice her. He never paid any attention to her. Well, that was not true. He did pay attention to her, if he needed something. She sighed deeply, put the mug down on the table in front of the couch and snuggled deeper into her blanket.

Thinking about HIM didn't help the situation. She knew it had been the right thing to do to break up with Tom. It had not been fair. He had only been a substitute for the bitter pill that was Sherlock Holmes. And as much as she wanted to deny it, she had known it from the beginning.

Yes, something had changed between her and the consulting detective, although she couldn't pinpoint what. Yes, he'd said she mattered and there had been those moments when he really looked at her, when he was actually seeing her. Like the last time in the morgue, when he had muttered, "Interesting." Could it be possible that he meant she was interesting? No, because then he would have reacted to the way she had looked that day. He would have said something nice. Who was she kidding? This was Sherlock Holmes – he rarely said something remotely nice.

But she had to admit he had come quite often to the morgue lately; more often than usual. Telling her he needed to check up on some experiments when she knew it wasn't true. Or as with the Wilkinson case: Why was he even at the morgue? He could have come to the right conclusion by only looking at the police report, she was sure about that. What did that all mean? Did it mean anything at all? Oh how she hated herself for thinking about him again! And how much she wanted to be able to put Toby on her lap and pet him. He would purr and press his head against her hand. She knew he was just a cat, but she couldn't imagine a life without him. Only people who themselves had a pet could understand that.

Thinking of how fragile he had looked when he had laid there on the table at the vet almost made her cry again. Because of the sickness his fur had lost its silky sheen. It had seemed to her to be the animal's equivalent of lividity. A tear left her eye. The saddest thing for her had been leaving Toby there. Since she had no backyard or any kind of garden, she had to leave his body at the vet. It would have been burned by now… No traces left that her precious tabby had ever existed.

She wiped the tears away and took a sip of her tea and willed the hot liquid to calm her down. She needed to occupy herself with something; otherwise she would only sit in her flat the whole day long, pitying herself. But what could she do?

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Molly looked at the door, as if doing so would tell her who was on the other side. She didn't expect anyone. Maybe it was Mary coming over to cheer her up? The pathologist got up and walked to the door. For the hundredth time she cursed mentally for not having a peephole.

As she opened the door and saw who was standing outside she wished not only for a peephole but for another outfit than her pyjamas. Furthermore she wished she'd done her hair, put on some make up or looked different altogether – tall, elegant, bigger breasts and a bigger mouth would have been nice.  
But since she did not, she only heard the words, "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" leaving said small mouth. She noticed the quick once-over he gave her with which he deduced everything about her day so far, she was sure. Then he strode past her into the flat.

After a moment's hesitation she closed the door and turned around towards him. He was standing beside the couch.  
She tried again, "Are you ok?" She couldn't keep the worry out of her voice.  
His tone didn't give anything away; neither did his expression as he spoke. "Sure. But apparently you're not. So get dressed. I need you to come with me."  
She wanted to ask more questions, but his stance told her it was not a subject for debate. Just minutes ago she had wanted a task, hadn't she? Being on a case with Sherlock would be a good distraction. There wasn't anything more distracting than Sherlock Holmes, was there?

"Ok," was all she said, as she went into her bedroom to get ready.

**TBC **


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews!

Thanks to **Irishwoman** for pointing out that the British English term is **pavement** and not sidewalk! If you happen to find other stuff like that or horrible grammar mistakes, let me know so I can fix them.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I don't own Sherlock Holmes. If I would, I would have a lot more money ;-)

* * *

Molly had never seen Sherlock drive before. She had known he had a licence, but still, she had never imagined Sherlock Holmes driving before. Somehow he seemed out of place behind a steering wheel. He was the type to sit in the backseat while a chauffeur took care of the driving. But of course he was a good driver. Why was she not surprised? He was good at everything – apart from dealing with people and sentiment. He detested sentiment. At least that's what he wanted everyone to believe. But for Molly it was obvious that it was not the case that Sherlock Holmes didn't feel or was unable to reciprocate feelings. No, for her it seemed as if he was confused by them. He didn't know how to deal with them, because they could be overwhelming and they were irrational. And if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was fond of, it was logic. And feelings were anything but logical. So he tried to stump them down and lock them up in the cellar of his mind palace for no one to see. But she knew he had deep feelings. Otherwise he wouldn't have jumped off a roof.

All these things were running through Molly's head as she was sitting beside Sherlock in his (? or Mycroft's?) car taking her somewhere. He hadn't said a word since they had left the flat and Molly was curious where their Sunday trip was going. She decided just to ask, "Well, you want to tell me about the case?"  
"Which case?"  
"The one we're going to."  
"I didn't say anything about a case."  
"So, we're not going on a case?"  
"Nope."  
Molly was silent for a moment. She wasn't really sure how to respond to that. Why else would he need her to come with him if not for a case?  
Apparently Sherlock took Molly's silence for a bad sign. He took his eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at her.  
"Are you disappointed by that?"  
Molly rushed to answer, "No, not at all!" Then she added with a shy voice, "I just don't understand." Sherlock nodded and looked again straight ahead.  
Another thought crossed Molly's mind. "Is John out of town or unavailable?"  
"This has nothing to do with John."

Again he didn't elaborate and the pathologist felt tired for getting answers that weren't really answers. "Sherlock, would you tell me what thisis all about?" She gestured between the two of them and the interior of the car.  
He sighed. "I told you, you're not ok." Molly could see that his grip on the steering wheel had fastened. Still she felt irritated and let that show in her voice. "I'm well aware that I'm not in one of my best moods, but…" She was about to say something like, "… but I have a good reason for it," but she thought better of it. Instead she settled for, "… but you wouldn't understand." Again he turned towards her. She couldn't place the look he was giving her. It was a mixture of hurt, sadness and could that be - sympathy?  
"You know, I do pay attention," he said. Molly was confused. What was that supposed to mean? The moment he was looking at her seemed so long, she started to worry about their safety. She wanted to tell him to pay attention to the traffic, but no words left her mouth. The look he gave her… as if he willed her to understand something profound. But by the love of God she couldn't.

Just before she started to panic in earnest about him still looking at her, he turned his attention back to the road. The pathologist released a breath she hadn't known she had been holding and looked straight ahead as well.

She tried to get comfortable in her seat again. She hadn't realized before, but her whole body was tense. Something about this whole situation was so… weird. Out of the corners of her eyes Molly could see that the consulting detective was at least as tense as she was – if not more. The only time she had seen him like that had been the night before the fall. That thought frightened her. What was going on? She swallowed hard to clear the lump in her throat.  
She decided to try again. She would never give up on trying with Sherlock Holmes – it was her curse. "Where are we going?" That brought something like a smirk on his face. "Try to figure it out, Dr Hooper."

Of course the only thing Molly Hooper could figure out was that they were leaving the city of London heading north. From time to time Molly saw Sherlock glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. After another half an hour drive, which passed in total silence – but not an uncomfortable one – they were in the countryside and Sherlock pulled into a narrow street. Neither to the right nor to the left were any houses, only lawn and trees. They followed the road for a few minutes, until Molly could make out a red cottage at the end of it. As they came closer the pathologist saw a low masonry wall surrounding the front yard. There were a lot of bushes and pot plants surrounding the cottage. It looked lovely.

Sherlock parked the car in front of it, got out of the driver's seat, and before Molly could unbuckle her seatbelt, he had opened the passenger's door for her. She couldn't help but perk up her eyebrows at his gentleman-behaviour. His respond was to roll his eyes and gesture her to get out. She did as he asked. The consulting detective rounded the car, opened the wrought iron garden door and made his way up the two steps to the wooden front door. He pulled out a key and opened it.

Molly was watching the events unfold from her position by the car. Why was it that she was surprised that he had a key and not picked the lock? Irritated that she hadn't followed him, he turned around. His tone was impatient, "Are you coming, or are you too surprised that I actually had a key and did not pick the lock?" _How could he have guessed that?_ A mischievous little smile tucked at the corners of his mouth. Molly chuckled and walked over to Sherlock who was holding the door open for her. Before entering she spotted a black tin cat on the steps and instantly thought that the owners were likeable.

The inside was as cosy as Molly had expected it to be. After hanging up the coat, she followed Sherlock through the hall into the kitchen. There was a wooden table, a wooden shelf, filled with cups and spices and a small stove. Given by the supplies in the kitchen, it was obvious that whoever was living here liked to cook. Sherlock walked over to the counter.  
"Would you like some tea?"  
"Yes, that would be lovely." Molly was getting more and more confused. Sherlock seemed to know his way around in the kitchen. While he filled the electric kettle, he suggested, "Why don't you get yourself comfortable in the sitting room while I take care of the tea?" He pointed with his hand to a door to his right.  
"Alright."  
Sherlock turned back to the task at hand and Molly went through the door into the sitting room.

This room was as comfortable as a sitting room could get. The walls were painted green with a lot of paintings on them. There was a white mantelpiece decorated with all kinds of small figures. A sofa and a chair where in front of it – looking very inviting. Behind the couch was a dresser, with a collection of photographs. That's where Molly's feet dragged her. She already had a suspicion about the owners of the cottage, but she wanted to be sure. The photos proofed her right, although she had to admit she had imagined it to be totally different. She found herself looking at the smiling faces of a happy couple and a smiling Mycroft and Sherlock – well, it was as close to a smile as Mycroft could muster. The photos covered a period of about 20 years. There were baby pictures of the Holmes kids, as well as some from their graduations. The older the Holmes brothers got, the stiffer their smile became. On his graduation picture Sherlock was looking point-blank bored. Molly had to smile fondly at that – it was just so typical Sherlock. It didn't escape Molly's notice that there were no photos of either the elder or the younger Holmes after their 20s. Suddenly a picture in a silver frame, hidden behind some others, caught her attention. It showed Sherlock at the age of ten or twelve. His hair was a dark curly mess and his piercing blue eyes twinkling with mischief. He was kneeling and tightly embracing a brown dog. Molly didn't know very much about dogs (she was a cats' person), but she figured it was an Irish Setter. She picked up the photo. The dog was almost as tall as the little Sherlock and the boy had a look of utter contentment and ease on his face. Molly had never seen him like that. And suddenly she felt very sad for Sherlock. There was such a discrepancy between the boy in the photograph and the man in the adjoining room. She wished she could do something for him that would make him feel that at ease again. Without thinking she let her finger run over the glass.

"I guess you've figured out then where we are." She jumped at the voice coming from the doorway.  
Feeling like being caught while doing something forbidden, she hastily put the photo back on the dresser and turned around to see Sherlock walking into the room, placing a tray on the couch table.  
"Well, I'd say it's you parents' house," she answered shyly.  
"Clearly."

Molly walked over to the sofa and both sat down. Sherlock filled her cup, added just the right amount of milk (of course…) and gestured her to take some biscuits. Molly couldn't help but snicker at that. Sherlock being almost… domestic… it was somehow disconcerting. The consulting detective put the tea pot back on the tray. "What?" he asked his snickering guest. He didn't look pleased.  
"Nothing. Sorry… it's just… it's surreal."  
"What is?"  
"This." She made an expansive gesture.  
"I see." His mouth was a thin line. He took a sip of his tea. His movements were stiff.  
The last thing Molly wanted was for him to feel uncomfortable. So she tried to explain. "Sherlock, it's not surreal in a bad way. What I mean is…" She didn't really know how to phrase this. And him looking at her with a grim mask on his face didn't help at all. She felt a little bit like mousy Hooper again. But she wanted to get this right. She wanted him to know that she liked that side of him – how bizarre it might be.

"What I was trying to say is that I really appreciate you making me tea and stuff, but you don't usually do that kind of thing. It's not that I don't know that you're not capable of kindness, because I know for a fact that you are. It's just, when you show me that side of you something is usually very wrong and you need something from me. And that's okay, because there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. You know that, don't you? Of course you do, but…"  
"You're rambling," Sherlock interrupted her. Although his tone sounded cold, his eyes betrayed the fact that he seemed to find her speech endearing.  
Molly drew a breath to cool her nerves. "The point I'm trying to make is, you make me a little anxious with your behaviour. And I would appreciate it if you would just ask me what you want from me, instead of leading me on and manipulating me."  
Sherlock was appalled. "I'm not manipulating you!" His voice had been louder than he had intended, because Molly flinched slightly. So he continued in a reasonable tone.  
"I know I used to do that in the past. But I thought you have realized that since I've been back from the dead I haven't done anything like that. All the compliments I paid you have been genuine, I can assure you, and weren't meant to lead you on – as you so wonderfully put it." He made a pause to look her deeply in the eyes, to make sure she understood what he had said. The pathologist nodded. He took that as a sign to continue.  
"Believe it or not, but us being here has nothing to do with me. As I was informed you have had a few bad days and I wanted you to…," he was clearly looking for the right words. When he ended the sentence he told it the sofa cushions. "I wanted to make you feel better. And I think I might know from experience what might help in your case."  
Molly tried to will him to look at her, but he did not. He seemed to find the flower pattern on the cushions quite interesting. She took a sip of her tea.  
"So, what is my case then?" _So it seems we __**are **__on a case… _

Finally Sherlock looked at her and there was it again, the honest sympathy she had seen in the car.  
"Come." He got up and Molly followed him out of the sitting room. On the way through the kitchen he picked up something from the table, but she couldn't see what it was. They went through the corridor to the back door and Sherlock showed her to the garden.

* * *

A/N: As you might have noticed I tried to describe the Homles-house as you see it in the series - at least the bits that you see. I know there was another sitting room (red one) in which Sherlock's dad was sleeping (or unconscious from the punch...), but I found the one we see Mary sitting in way better for the course of my story.  
There will be one more chappy... :-)  
Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews – they make me write much faster :-)  
I hope the end won't disappoint.  
Thanks for joining the ride! It's been my pleasure! ;-)

* * *

The backyard was enormous. There were a lot of trees and flowerbeds, always with flowers of similar colour. One could see that Mr and Mrs Holmes took a great joy in gardening. Then something in the middle of the garden caught Molly's attention. It was a marble bird bath. It wasn't that it wasn't pretty – it looked very delicate and expensive –but it didn't fit in the garden. The backyard looked like a wonderful organized chaos, but the bird bath seemed totally out of place. It would have fitted perfectly in the garden of a manor, but here…  
Sherlock seemed to read her thoughts. "It was a gift from Mycroft."  
"Yeah, that suits him." That made the consulting detective chuckle. Following Sherlock, who seemed to be heading to the back of the garden, Molly added, "I can imagine Mycroft has a giant set of marble chess in his garden." "Something like that, yeah." Molly wasn't sure if he was joking or not. It was hard to tell.

They hadn't put their coats back on, but it was not necessary. It was quite warm and the sun was shining. Molly was enjoying its rays on her face. It felt as if some of its glow went through her skin, warming her from the inside out.

They arrived at the far end of the garden. It was bounded by a hedge of all different kinds of bushes – some in bloom, some not. Sherlock walked over to the garden shed. "Wait there," he ordered. Molly looked at all the plants. Their different smells mingled in the air. She took a deep sniff. It smelled wonderful.

Sherlock returned from the hedge with a small shovel in one hand, still holding the ominous box in the other. She looked at him quizzically. He ignored her questioning gaze and walked over to the biggest shrub. It was in full bloom. He knelt in front of it and put the shovel and the box down. With a shake of his head he signalled Molly to join him. She did so and knelt down beside him, he reached forward to pull away some branches and behind them appeared a small wooden cross, which was stuck in the ground. It was clearly a grave.

Unsure what that was all about, Molly looked at Sherlock for clarification. Silently he told her to find out for herself. So she leaned forward hesitantly to take a closer look at the cross. The wood had already turned grey and there was a carved inscription. The writing was scrawly – clearly made by a child. The woman squinted to decipher it. REDBEARD.

Finally the penny dropped. She looked back at the blue box Sherlock had put beside him and at the small shovel. Could it be possible? She didn't dare hope. _But first things first. _  
"Sherlock, who was Redbeard?" She looked at him. He stared right back.  
"You saw a picture of him earlier."  
"He was your dog." It was not a question, but Sherlock still nodded, not taking his eyes off her. "You said I wouldn't understand, but as a matter of fact, I do. I know what it feels like to lose a… friend."  
Molly could feel her heart ache for him, because she was quite sure until John, Redbeard had been Sherlock's only friend.  
"What happened to him?"  
Sherlock's expression was calm, but the sadness in his eyes was unmistakable. Molly felt blessed to be one of the few he allowed to see it.  
"He was hit by a car. His injuries were so severe that they had to put him down."  
He averted his gaze, looking at the small cross with the fading inscription.  
"We left his body at the vet, but I couldn't believe he was gone for good. I wouldn't accept it. So I sneaked out that night and broke into the animal clinic. Don't ask me what I was thinking. Resurrecting him, playing Frankenstein… children are dumb." He snorted and shook his head before continuing. "Mycroft had followed me. He found me sitting beside Redbeard's body crying. 'Oh Sherlock, don't be stupid!' he said and wanted to drag me away. But I refused. So after some quarrelling he took the cage with Redbeard inside and me by the hand. He brought me home. Mum and dad were out. Mycroft went in the garden with me, gave me a shovel and said, 'Get it over with.' I started digging a grave and Mycroft watched me. After we had put the dog in it, he wanted to help me – don't mistake that for him being helpful. He was getting impatient by then. But I wouldn't let him. Redbeard had been my friend. I owed him to do it on my own."

Sherlock paused for a moment and squinted, as if finding his way back from the memory into the present. Slowly he turned away from the cross to look at the pathologist again. There were tears in her eyes that were threatening to fall. His story had touched her deeply. The sight of it made him clearly uncomfortable. But he kept looking at her as he told her, "That's why I know how you feel. And I know that it's important to bury your loved ones, so you can put it behind."

Now the tears fell and Molly saw Sherlock flinch at that. To cover his discomfort, he reached for the blue box and the shovel. He kept his gaze fixed on the shovel as he handed it to her. She took it, but when she did, her hand closed over his. That made him look up at her. She was still crying, but there was a faint smile on her face speaking of gratitude.

"Thank you." There words were choked, but that made them even more meaningful. Sherlock nodded and Molly had never seen such a warm expression on his face before. She took the shovel with shaking hands. Sherlock reached for the blue box. As he was about to open it, he hesitated. "Do **you** want to do it?" She shook her head. "No, please, you open it. I…" She snivelled. He nodded in understanding and opened the box. Molly leaned closer and looked inside. There he was: her beloved tomcat; looking as if he was only asleep. A choked sound escaped Molly's lips, and now she cried in earnest.

At first the consulting detective looked horrified. He gazed back and forth between Molly and the cat. But suddenly he seemed to know what to do. Maybe it was because he remembered what he had wanted Mycroft to do all those years ago, when he had sat there crying, or he was just acting on intuition. He leaned closer to the crying woman next to him and took her in his arms. For a moment she went stiff in his embrace, clearly not expecting the move, but as soon as he started drawing smoothing circles on her back with his fingers, she relaxed and buried her face in his chest.

After succeeding in getting Sherlock's purple shirt wet with tears, Molly had calmed down and had started digging the grave. He had watched her in silence, letting her know that he would take over if she had wanted him to. At the same time he knew that she would want to do it on her own – just as he had done back then. After finishing the task, Sherlock reached behind him and presented another wooden cross to Molly. It had an inscription as well. TOBY. This time the writing was an elegant scrawl. The woman identified it as Sherlock's handwriting.  
"Where did you get that?" she asked incredulously.  
"I made it, apparently."  
"I know, I mean… Where does it come from? It can't possible fit into your pocket."  
Sherlock put on a mysterious expression. "A man has to have his secrets. It's like with the ashtray from Buckingham Palace."  
That made Molly giggle. "What?"  
"Nevermind."

He sighed and his expression turned serious again. "Now, shall we?" Molly put on a brave face, took the cross and stuck it into the ground. She leaned back to have a good look at it. There it was: the grave of Toby Hooper, under a blooming bush right next to Redbeard Holmes. She couldn't have wished for a better final resting place.

Her eyes became glassy again, but she had to smile in spite of it. She saw Sherlock watch her intently out of the corners of her eyes. Molly couldn't resist and reached over to grab his hand. He took it without hesitation and squeezed it gently. She sighed deeply and leaned over to lay her head on his shoulder. So they sat there, leaning onto each other in total understanding.

Although Molly was sad, she had never felt so comforted before. She still couldn't believe what he had done – for her.  
"So, you broke into an animal clinic again?"  
"Seems like it."  
A beat.  
"How did you know about Toby's death? Did you deduce it when you were at the morgue that day?"  
Molly could feel Sherlock's body tense and she took her head from his shoulder, but she didn't let go of his hand. She turned to look at him.  
"Sherlock?"  
He stared straight ahead.  
"No, I did not deduce it. I thought you were upset about the end of your engagement. That's why I wasn't…"  
"That's why you weren't...?" she pressed softly.  
"John told me," he finally said.  
She tucked at his hand and that made him look at her again. His eyes were a pool of emotions: confusion, frustration, sadness, excitement, conflict, kindness and so many other things Molly couldn't place. Only looking at them made her dizzy. She knew he wanted to tell her something, but somehow he couldn't. And the longer he looked at her like that, the more she became nervous, excited and afraid. Therefore she built up her courage and asked, "Why are we here?"  
"I already told you twice: Because you're not okay."  
"Sherlock, that's not an answer."  
"You know why." His voice was low and his jaw tense.  
Molly's voice was soft as she spoke, "I need you to tell me."  
"For the same reason why you broke it off with Tom."  
At first Molly wanted to say that this was not an answer as well, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that let her pause. There was uncertainty and fear, and could it be possible…? There was affection in his eyes – bright as day shining through.  
She had broken it off with Tom, because she still loved Sherlock. So did he mean that he…

As usual he seemed to know her train of thoughts. He cupped her cheek tenderly with the hand that was not holding hers. Gently he brushed his thumb over her cheek where the tears had dried and Molly closed her eyes involuntarily at the contact.  
Yes, she wanted him to tell her why he had done this for her, but she knew that was as much of the truth as she would get at the moment. And that was fine with her. It was more than she had ever hoped for.

She opened her eyes again to see him lean forward. And before she knew what was happening his lips descended on hers. He was sweet and gentle while cradling her head in his hand. She kissed him back just as gentle and tried to put all her feelings for him into that kiss.

All too soon he pulled away. She opened her eyes to see him staring at her in wonder. She smiled her typical shy Molly-smile.  
She cleared her throat. "I really appreciate that you trust me enough to bring me to your parents' house. It means a great deal to me."  
"Although they are not at home?" He had a teasing smile on his face.  
"We'll save that for next time," she teased back, her smile even broader than his.

THE END


End file.
